Stranger
by Dwarven Runes
Summary: Dreams are such odd things. Some say they are memories. Others say they are visions of the future. And a few believe they are windows to other dimensions. Originally a oneshot, but now it's doubled.
1. Not All Those That Wander

The dragon opened his eyes sleepily and lifted his head. He gazed around with a somewhat confused look. Gold. Jewels. Mountains and mountains of beautiful shinies. All of them were his. All belonged to him. They were his, they were his, they were his. His his his his his. They were his. But then why did he feel like they weren't? It was because of that dream, he was sure of it. He'd had that strange dream again, the one about being small and pale and having hair instead of beautiful shiny scales. It was a strange dream, one that left him feeling strange in his own skin.

He blinked the sleep away furiously. There. That was better. Perhaps it was time for another nap… But what had woken him in the first place? He glanced around with his sharp dragon eyes, absorbing every detail, and noticed disconcertedly that a cup was gone. He smelled the air, and caught the scent of something new, something… interesting. Curious, he called out, "Thief, I know you're there." He heard a shifting in his treasure hoard as someone, something, crouched down low. He looked in the direction of the noise, but saw no one. Ah. Invisible. The thief had something to make him invisible, which meant that the crouching was just instinctual, and had no real purpose. "Why can't I see you?" he asked as he crept towards the source of the disturbance. The thief said nothing, but the dragon's keen ears picked up the creature's rapid breathing. He stalked closer.

"Oh, come on. You know I've already found you. What makes you go unseen to my keen eyes? Something… magic, perhaps?" A sharp intake of breath. "Ah, yes, that's what it is. Shall I run down the list of possible items for you?" There was still no response. The dragon continued casually, "I'm going to eat you anyway, you know. You might as well get rid of whatever it is that makes you invisible. I enjoy seeing my victims' faces before I gobble them down." There was a skitter of gold coins as the thief took flight. The dragon easily kept pace, grinning his toothy grin. "Oh, come on, thief." He leaped forward, and sprawled himself in the creature's path. "Give me something good."

The thief rolled to a stop, judging by the sound of the shifting gold. The dragon could hear its heavy breathing. "Now, since you've stopped running I'm going to ask you to take off that ring. Do it, and we'll have a nice discussion before I eat you. Don't do it, and I'll eat you anyway." The thief took a few gulps of air before replying. "What would we talk about?" he asked. The dragon smiled enigmatically. Why did its voice sound familiar?

"Fine." The thief suddenly appeared before the dragon, and they looked at one another.

"How did you know?" the thief asked abruptly.

"About the ring? Magic, my dear thief."

"Right. But seriously, how?"

The dragon's tail twitched in amusement. "I could feel it. You might want to be careful with that thing. It reminds me of something I haven't felt in ages, a very powerful thing."

"What?"

"Ah, that remains to be seen. But not by you. I'm going to eat you. So. Are you scared, strange little man?"

"Yes. Not a man, by the way."

"Hm. Something else, then. Well, what else do you have to say? You've got more than that. Go ahead."

"You are bloody fantastic."

"Really? Most people say I'm a monster."

"Well, I mean, you do eat people. But you are, and I really do mean it, bloody fantastic. The way the light glints off your scales is beautiful. You are extremely graceful. Your eyes shine like jewels. You are, without a doubt, the most beautiful creature I have ever seen."

The dragon was touched. Always before, he had been the creature of destruction and fire and death. He had always thought that he was beautiful, but never before had anyone else said as much. This emotion was so strange for a dragon. Strange, like the dream. Strange, like the weirdly familiar voice of the man, for he could think of nothing else to call the thief before him. Strange and stranger still.

On an impulse, he craned his head forward to get a good look at the man who didn't flinch when a dragon's eye, located just above a mouth with sharp teeth and deadly fire, stopped to look at him from just five feet away.

"Strange," the dragon mused, pulling back. "Strange. I feel as though I know you from somewhere. Why is that, little thief? Why do I know your face? Know your voice?"

The thief blinked. "Why, I thought it was only me. I know your voice, though I can't say I've ever seen a face quite like yours. This whole encounter has been strangely familiar."

The dragon gazed down at the man. "Yes, I feel the déjà vu as well."

He was struck by a sudden thought, a sudden idea that connected everything together. "Tell me," the dragon said urgently, leaning his head down again, "Do you ever dream of a city? A stone city, with tall buildings and lights everywhere?"

The thief's eyes widened. "Yes. Yes, I do. And there's a number. Uh... 221B."

"Baker Street. London."

"Oh God. Sherlock."

"John."

The dragon and the man stared at each other.

The dragon coughed, and turned his head. "Yes. Well. I can't eat you now, can I? Be on your way, whatever you are. Whoever you are."

The thief smiled. "Bilbo Baggins, oh great and powerful Smaug. Barrel rider."

The dragon snorted as the man trotted off. "Barrel rider indeed. He comes from Laketown."

* * *

**Hey guys, what's up? I hope you enjoyed this oneshot. I tried my best with the characters, but if you could let me know what you thought, that'd be great. **

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**Thanks for reading, and stay awesome! **


	2. Sherlock Tests a Theory

It was early in the morning. Very, very early, and nothing of interest was happening.

"Bored, bored, bored," Sherlock muttered. He drummed his fingers against the arms of his chair.

He leaped out of the chair and began to pace. He could watch telly. No, no. Boring, boring, boring. No cases! Sooooo booooored…

John could help. Where was John? He looked around. No John. Asleep? No, made cocoa (sniff) with cinnamon, not here, kettle still warm, John still awake, upstairs sipping cocoa.

Cocoa for dreams. Afghanistan? No, Afghanistan, John sat in his chair and drank the cocoa. He was up at that point, after one of those dreams, didn't go back to sleep. But no mug left in the sink, he wasn't here, upstairs, sipping cocoa before going back to sleep for a bit. Not Afghanistan, but something had disturbed his sleep enough he woke and wanted something soothing.

What was it? What had possibly troubled him enough to make him want hot cocoa?

Sherlock sat back down, and brought his palms together thoughtfully.

Nothing recent. Business as usual. Though they hadn't been shot at recently. Or bombed. Or threatened, for that matter. The last few weeks hadn't been all that perilous, really. Was John missing mortal danger to the extreme that he had nightmares about missing it? No, no, not possible. Stupid theory, really. Theories, theories, so many theories.

And then a theory, one of many, occurred to him, and he sat still like a statue. Impossible. But was it? Was it really?

Maybe. Maybe not. It needed testing.

It was insane, of course, but that didn't make it any less possible.

* * *

John came down the stairs yawning much, much later that morning. He'd have to make breakfast quickly, or he wouldn't get any at all before leaving for work.

But it was dark downstairs in the living room. The curtains were drawn. Unusual, that. He almost said something about it to Sherlock, who was sitting in his chair, but realized that his best friend, a man who was trying to overcome a nicotine addiction, was staring at a cigarette. John sucked in a breath, prepared to reasonably discuss the purpose behind this action (scold him for smoking) when he was doing so well with giving it up. But he paused, and held his breath. Sherlock's stare was strange. It wasn't a casual stare, like he was pulling the cigarette out for a smoke. It was a deep, intense stare, _his_ deep and intense stare, the very focused gaze that made people feel awkward because when Sherlock looked at you like that, it was as though he could see your very soul and was about to comment on its state. He invariably did so, but that was for people. He was giving this look to a cigarette.

John let out the breath in a huff, puzzled. Sherlock's eyes shot up, and he looked at John strangely for a moment. He then went back staring to at the cigarette as though it held the answers to life, the universe, and everything, and refused to share its knowledge with the person who saw much and deduced almost all. A frustrating predicament to be sure, if it were the case. But it was just a cigarette. John placed his cocoa mug in the kitchen and went to stand by his chair.

"All right. What's with the cigarette?" he asked after watching for a bit.

Sherlock didn't look up. He didn't twitch. His focus was wholly on the cigarette. He did, however, murmur, "I'm testing a theory, John." And left it at that. John blinked in surprise. Well. Whatever it was, it didn't appear to involve smoking. After all, looking wasn't smoking. But then Sherlock slowly brought the cigarette up to his nose and took a deep breath. "Sherlock…" John said warningly. Sherlock snorted, and lowered the cigarette. "Relax, John, it's not going to burst into flames. I'm smelling it. Not smoking it."

John would have tried to debate this, but he was hungry. If he spent two hours arguing with Sherlock about not smoking a cigarette, he would never get any breakfast, not to mention the fact that he would be late to work. John turned back to the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to observe his cigarette. It was admittedly worrying, but at least he wasn't smoking it. His stomach growled. Definitely time for breakfast. He opened the fridge.

Maybe he ought to cook some breakfast for his lazy flat mate. Sherlock was often too far away in his mind palace testing his theories to even think about food, much less cook it. Yeah, breakfast for two. John frowned as he gazed into the fridge. Eggs, eggs, where were the eggs? Turning to look at his friend, he asked, "Sherlock, do we have any…" His question trailed off as he saw the flare of the lighter in the dim room. It cast a fiery glow about Sherlock's eyes, lending them a sudden golden gleam as he intently lit the cigarette before flicking the lighter closed. "I thought you gave up smoking," John said, startled. Sherlock smiled. "Yup," he said, and brought the cigarette up to his mouth. He inhaled slowly, clearly savoring the taste. John stood for a minute, a little surprised (what's all this about?) and concerned (was this a danger day?). And was it just him, or did Sherlock look vaguely… no, no. That wasn't it at all.

Sherlock seemed like himself, yet John couldn't help but feel anxious. He wrinkled his nose at the sudden smell of smoke, and went to open the curtains and the window. He turned around in the light of day, and saw a trail of smoke drifting out over the back of Sherlock's chair. There was something familiar about that. It made him think of a wisp of cloud, or indeed, smoke, caught around the tip of a large, lone mountain. He blinked. Well, that was a strange idea. He shook his head after a moment, getting rid of the fuzzy feeling that was déjà vu, and headed back to the kitchen. Maybe it was just because he was hungry.

He went about pulling out everything needed for breakfast, getting hungrier and hungrier with every passing minute, and was just about to start cracking eggs when Sherlock asked, "Do we have any of what, John?"

John slammed the egg he held poised to crack onto the counter in surprise, and swore when the egg smashed and its contents exploded everywhere. He felt what he considered a wholly justified rush of irritation. He was hungry, and Sherlock had already delayed his breakfast with the whole cigarette business, which he was still worried about. He would have to ask Mrs. Hudson to keep an eye on his ridiculous flat mate today because he had to leave for work soon, and he had been interrupted in the cracking of the eggs, causing _this _mess, and what on God's green earth did Sherlock want now anyway, because it clearly wasn't breakfast?!

He took a calming breath before turning his head to look at Sherlock. "What?" he asked flatly.

Sherlock puffed out a stream of smoke from his nostrils, patiently and curiously staring at John.

John's eyes went wide for an instant. What was this? Did he…? No, he couldn't.

…but this was Sherlock, so maybe.

"Cups. Do we have any cups, Sherlock?" he asked belligerently, and unsure as to why asking about cups felt like the right way to go about this. Sherlock's lips twitched upward, satisfied. "Yes, but they're all mine anyway," he said smoothly. John frowned, thrown off track. "What, I can't even use a teacup now?" he asked. Sherlock pursed his lips. "No, I think not, thief," he replied, and took another puff, letting the smoke trickle from his mouth. John's jaw dropped as something clicked in his head.

They stared at each other for a moment. Sherlock was smiling innocently at John, who had the most shocked expression on his face Sherlock had ever had the pleasure of encountering. And for his part, at the back of his head, John was wondering for whom Sherlock had learned to smile so innocently.

John snapped his mouth shut, and inhaled sharply through his nose. And then let it out in a great huff. Nope. Didn't work. He was still irritated as all get out. Sometimes Sherlock did this to him, but this time, he'd gone a little too far.

"You…" John growled, and stormed over to Sherlock, jabbing a finger at him. "You idiot! You had me worried about that cigarette. I didn't know what to think! I thought you were depressed! But this whole… charade was all so you could tell me that you knew what dream I had! I don't know how you could possibly know what I was dreaming about, which is bloody amazing by the way, but I am done with this nonsense! I need to eat breakfast, and I obviously can't do that in this flat, since you keep interrupting me, so I'm going somewhere else." He strode over to the door, said, "Goodbye," shortly, and slammed the door behind him.

Sherlock sat still in his chair, listening to the stomp stomp stomp creeeaaak BANG of John leaving the house, and blew out a smoke ring. He calmly watched it dissipate.

Proof that insane theories weren't always incorrect… check.

Proof that John was out of sorts when he didn't get breakfast… also check.

He groaned, and extinguished the cigarette. It had been somewhat interesting, but now it was over, and he was bored again.

Boring mornings were the absolute worst.

…Perhaps he should investigate some other insane theories he had.

* * *

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**And, as always, stay awesome.**

**D. Runes**


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